“You need to be taking better care of yourself, Jilly,” he growled, injecting just enough stern into his tone to sound serious, but not mean. “This many energy drinks isn’t any good for anybody. And it’s obvious you’re tired. Why aren’t you looking after yourself better?”
The second the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. She refused to meet his gaze, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor instead, and her lower lip quivered sadly. She was so close to tears. He felt heartless. What he’d said was right, but he felt heartless all the same. He crossed his arms, fighting away the longing he had to comfort her, to take her in his arms. To protect her, comfort her, take care of her. Make everything all right for her. More than anything, he wanted to be her daddy. He wanted her to be his little girl. She needed a daddy desperately, more than any other little girl he’d ever met. But how was he meant to convince her of that? So far, he wasn’t having much luck in his half-hearted, almost playful attempts to hold her accountable and he didn’t really know what else to do.
“Thank you for your concern,” she said stiffly, before turning on her heel and walking out of the office straight toward the bathrooms, without a backwards glance in his direction.
Watching her walk away, he felt like a right royal asshole.
Way to go, Stevenson, he congratulated himself bitterly.
* * *
Worrying over being forced to move was all-consuming. Searching through the local papers and on the internet for possible rentals kept Jilly up late at night. The reality that there was very little available out there disrupted her slumber. She’d wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, terrified at the prospect of being unable to provide for her daughter. If it was just her... she could live in her car, no worries. But she had Lily to think of. And Lily deserved better than being homeless.
Every morning she was just as exhausted when her alarm went off as she’d been the night before, when she went to bed. She lived mostly on autopilot, caring for her daughter, going to work, doing what she had to do, mostly by rote. Muscle memory. But her mind was foggy, her body tired from lack of rest. She felt like a zombie. She couldn’t think clearly. Always, at the back of her mind was worry. She’d push it away, but still it lurked, disrupting every single aspect of her life.
She did her best to focus at work, but it was getting increasingly difficult. Especially when Matthew appeared at her desk, either with a menial task that he needed completed urgently, at the expense of her other, just as important work, or to scold her for something that really wasn’t any of his business. Just because he takes me out for lunch every day does not give him the right to think he controls my life. It was a mantra she repeated, but she wasn’t entirely sure that she believed it. It was kind of nice, having him remind her of the bad choices she was making. Not being scolded as such; that wasn’t pleasant at all. That made her feel like a naughty child. But just knowing that he cared enough to comment, that made her feel all melty inside. It made her feel that she mattered to him, and it had been a long time since she’d felt she’d mattered to somebody other than her daughter.
And when he took her to lunch every day, his huge hand resting there in the small of her back the way it always did, guiding her with the touch that always felt slightly possessive, she almost felt like she was his. But you’re not, she reminded herself. She remembered the way he slowed his strides, shortened them, so she could keep up, walking a bit slower than usual with her still-tender ankle. She remembered the subtle way he took her arm, steadying her up if they went up stairs, making sure she didn’t fall. She might not be his, but a tiny little part of her almost wanted to be. A tiny little part of her, the part that had forgotten about Cameron, thought it would be nice.
Because she was so tired due to stress and lack of sleep, it was getting harder and harder to get out of bed when her alarm clock went off in the morning. She hit snooze not just once but repeatedly, then she had to rush. Lily had to rush. She’d forget to brush her hair, run out of time to do her makeup. She looked dishevelled. Flustered. And she was.
Being late to work was pretty much inevitable.
And it finally happened. When the lift doors opened it was 9.04 a.m. Only four minutes, but it was enough. At Hutchings & Associates, four minutes may as well be four hours. Her heart sank as soon as she walked into the office. Matthew was standing at her desk, holding a manila folder full of papers. Filing, most likely. He looked at his watch.
“You’re late, Miss Watson. My office, please.”
Butterflies in her belly took flight at his stern tone. He looked very severe, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. He threw the manila folder down onto her desk with more force than was strictly necessary and, without waiting to make sure she was going to follow, he strode through the back of the receptionist’s office and down the hallway to his office. He walked quickly, making her scurry to keep up.
He waited just inside the door, holding it open for her, closing it behind her as she entered then walking around behind his desk to sit down.
“Sit down,” he commanded. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. One she felt compelled to obey. Slowly, she pulled out the other chair,
